by Lisa Jackson
“Would you want to?” she asked and smiled.
“No.” He parted the robe and took both her breasts in his hands. Holding them together he kissed the tops of each before guiding her fingers to his shirt. She needed no further instruction and began to remove his jacket, sweater and jeans while he never stopped kissing her, touching her, or causing her blood to heat and the yearning deep within her most private of regions to become ever more insistent.
Don’t do this, that nagging little voice in her head screamed, but she ignored it.
His fingers tangled in her hair, then moved down her back, kneading and probing. His body molded to hers. He tasted of salt and desire and she wanted him as she’d never wanted another man.
Only he could satisfy her.
Only he could send her soaring to heights she’d only imagined. She kissed him and dug her fingers into his shoulders.
Anxious, strident muscles rubbed against her softer, yielding flesh. His tongue found and rimmed the hollow of her throat before seeking darker, deeper clefts that made her bite her lip to keep from screaming out. Intimate spasms erupted deep inside before he came to her, parting her legs, kissing her and holding her close. She arched upward, wanting more, needing release. “Thorne—” she whispered when she thought she’d go mad with desire “—Thorne, for the love of—oh, oooh.”
With one forceful thrust he began to make love to her then and didn’t stop. As her breathing became shallow and her body sheened with a layer of perspiration, he kissed her, loved her. Over and over he claimed her until the first streaks of daylight pierced through the window shades and she, exhausted, still holding him close, finally drifted off.
The girls awakened a few hours later and the bed was cold and empty, only the faint scent of sex lingering with the sweet, sensual memories of lovemaking stealing through her mind. She glanced at the bureau where the rose he’d given her had faded and died, the petals falling onto the old wood. She hadn’t thrown the flower out; couldn’t.
She was tired, yes, but felt better than she had in years. She sang in the shower, laughed when the girls fought, dressed with a smile on her face. It was only when she was yanking a brush through her hair that she caught a glimpse of her reflection, and she noticed the curve of her lips and the sparkle in her eyes. “Oh, no,” she said, disbelieving.
But she couldn’t deny the plain truth that stared her squarely in the face: she was, despite all her warnings to herself, falling head over heels in love with Thorne McCafferty.
* * *
Denver held no appeal to him. His apartment seemed as cold and empty as an ice cave and though it was clean, every surface shining, fresh towels hung over the brass towel bars, a lit fire at his fingertips, he felt no sense of homecoming. His closet was filled with suits, sport coats, slacks and three tuxedos; the view from his living room and master bedroom, a spectacular array of the lights of the city. And yet he felt as if he were in a foreign land, an alien in a penthouse that he’d called home for more years than he wanted count.
He’d arrived in town in the morning and gone straight to the office. Somehow he’d survived four meetings before driving here where he intended to change and attend the black-tie affair hosted by Kent Williams. The dinner was for a charitable cause but the business behind the scenes was all about turning a profit. Not that he minded. Thorne was the first man to admit to being interested in making money.
And yet…
He poured himself a glass of Scotch and stared out the panorama of windows. Snow was falling and the lights of the city winked through the veil of flakes. He saw his own reflection in the glass, a tall man in a slightly wrinkled suit, holding a drink he didn’t want and feeling more alone than he ever had in his life.
He’d never been one to dislike his own company; in fact, he’d silently laughed at men who needed a woman on their arms, showpieces, accessories, or even wives they adored. It had all seemed so weak and cowardly; but now, as he looked at that pale, distorted, ghostlike image of himself in the window, he imagined Nicole with him. Whether dressed in a sequined evening gown, or a pair of jeans and tennis shoes, or a lab coat over slacks and a blouse, her image seemed perfect at his side.
“Idiot,” he muttered and tossed back his drink. He’d go to the damned party, do his business and drive to the airport tonight. The weather service was predicting two feet of snow to be dumped on the Denver area in the next couple of days, but Thorne intended to return to Grand Hope as soon as he could escape the obligations of his position.
There were too many pressing problems in Montana for him to tarry in this soulless suite he’d once considered home.
Home. Ha!
What were all the old sayings?
Home sweet home?
There’s no place like home?
Home is where the heart is?
He took one final look around the living room as he strode to the bedroom to dig out one of his tuxedos. One thing was for certain: his heart wasn’t here. Nope—it was currently residing in the hallways of St. James Hospital with the stubborn, bright, beautiful emergency room physician he’d once turned his back on—a divorced woman with two children already and no apparent desire to settle down again.
Well, all that was about to change. Thorne was used to taking charge of a situation, of getting what he wanted, and right now as he pulled out the designer tux with the forest-green cummerbund, he wanted Dr. Nicole Stevenson. One way or another he’d have her.
* * *
Nicole was dead on her feet. She’d worked overtime as there was a horrible accident involving two cars and a pickup. The wreck had occurred just two miles outside the city limits of Grand Hope. An eighty-year-old man and a teenager hadn’t survived; the man’s wife and three other teenagers were fighting for their lives. All were in critical condition with head injuries, punctured lungs, cracked ribs, ruptured spleens and all manner of contusions. A middle-aged housewife and her two children that were in the pickup had survived with only minor injuries, but the ER had been a madhouse and every available doctor, nurse, aid and anesthesiologist had been called in. Only now, ten hours after the first ambulance had arrived and they’d dealt with the severely injured, were things finally settling down. The rest of the patients, a woman who had scalded herself, an eight-year-old who had slammed his finger in a car door, three flu cases and a man complaining of dizzy spells had been forced to wait.
But the worst of the chaos was over, the patients stabilized, and relief physicians had arrived. Finally, Nicole could go home. She poured herself a fresh cup of coffee and quickly wrote some notes on her computer before grabbing her jacket, laptop and briefcase and leaving St. James.
The parking lot was a blanket of white as snow had fallen all day long. Six inches had piled in the parking lot and ice and snow had collected on the SUV’s windshield. She waited for the defroster and wipers to clear the glass, then drove carefully into town.
She hadn’t heard from Thorne since yesterday morning and she was beginning to miss him, though she didn’t want to admit how deeply and emotionally entangled she’d become with him and his entire family.
“Oh, don’t be a fool,” she told herself as she stopped to ease the rig into four-wheel drive. She decided to call Thorne when she got home, tell him about a friend of Jenny’s who was interested in the nanny job and just reconnect. After all, in these days of women’s liberation, why couldn’t she call him rather than sit by the phone or wonder what he was doing?
She made her way home and found her girls already dressed in their pajamas and ready for bed. “Sorry I’m late,” she apologized to Jenny after hugging each twin and listening to them babble on about what they’d done during the day. There was talk of a snowman in the backyard and Mindy complained that Molly had hit her with a snowball.
“Did not!” Molly cried, but guilt contorted her little face and she call
ed her sister a tattletale when she finally confessed without a drop of remorse.
“They’ve been pretty good,” Jenny admitted and hugged each girl before leaving. With the twins standing on the love seat, their noses pressed to the window, Nicole watched as Jenny drove off through the storm, the taillights of her battle-scarred station wagon winking bright red against a shower of snowflakes.
It was nearly two hours later, once Molly and Mindy were fast asleep, that she dialed the number of the Flying M. The phone was answered by a woman with a thick Spanish accent.
“McCafferty Ranch.”
“This is Nicole Stevenson. I’m looking for—”
“The doctor. Dios! Has something happened to Señorita Randi?”
“No, I just wanted to talk to Thorne.”
“But Randi, she is the same?”
“Yes. As far as I know.”
There was a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. “Thorne, he is not here, but you can speak to Slade.”
Disappointment pierced her soul. “No, that’s all right. Have Thorne give me a call when he returns.”
“He is not coming back for a while,” the woman said, then holding her hand over the receiver spoke to someone else and within a few seconds Slade’s voice boomed over the wires.
“Is this Nicole?”
“Yes.”
There was a moment’s hesitation. “Oh. Well, I thought you knew. Thorne’s in Denver. We don’t expect him back for a few days. We’re not really sure but the storm’s hit hard there and it looks like he won’t be back for a while—uh-oh.” In the background she heard a baby start to put up a fuss. “Was there a message I could pass along to him?”
“No, not really,” she said, feeling deflated somehow. “I thought he was looking for a nanny and I have the number of a woman who might be a possibility.”
The baby was really wailing by this time. “Great. The job hasn’t been filled yet. Why don’t you give me the information?”
“Sure. The woman’s name is Christina Foster.” She gave Slade Christina’s number and was about to hang up when she remembered something she’d wanted to tell Thorne but hadn’t had the chance. “You know, Slade, I was reading an article in a magazine the other night. It was about single parenting and the byline was for an R. J. McKay. I know this sounds crazy, but it sure read like something your sister might have written.”
“Is that so?” Slade was all ears. “You still got a copy of it?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to see it.”
“Sure, but as I said, I’m not certain it was written by Randi.”
“Nonetheless.”
“I’ll make you a copy and send it to you.”
“Thanks.”
She hung up and felt a big case of the blues threatening to overtake her. So Thorne was in Denver. So what?
Why didn’t he mention that he was going? Why hasn’t he called?
“Stop it,” she told herself. She wasn’t going to be one of those women who sat around and stewed over a man. No way, no how. And yet, as she pulled the blinds and saw one last view of the snowy night, she couldn’t help wish that Thorne was here with her, holding her in his arms and making love to her as if he would never stop.
* * *
Cradling a cup of coffee, Thorne glowered out the window to the gray morning. Snow was still falling as if it would never stop and the airport was a mess. At another time in his life, he would have kept busy, gone to the office, buried himself in his work, managed his life around the natural disaster that seemed hell-bent on causing him problems. But now he wanted to return to Grand Hope, Montana—to the ranch, to Randi, to little J.R. and especially to Nicole. Grand Hope was where he belonged. With his brothers and sister. With his nephew. With the woman he loved.
Silently he sipped his black coffee and laughed at himself. Thorne McCafferty, once upon a time a confirmed bachelor, now contemplating not just living with a woman for the rest of his life, but marrying her.
Matt and Slade would needle him mercilessly when they found out. But he didn’t mind.
His head still ached from the buzz of last night’s party. Kent Williams had been attentive and brought several ideas to him—a condominium project in Aspen, single-family courtyard homes in a development just outside of Denver, and an apartment complex in Boulder. He’d been certain they could work something out and all the while Annette had hovered near him, touching him, smiling up at him, showing off her sleek body in a low-cut gown of mauve silk while he spoke to other businessmen and reporters who were covering the event. She’d even managed to loop her arm through his while a society page reporter had spoken with him and a photographer had flashed his picture.
Thorne hadn’t been interested in her advances, but had managed to smile and accept her attentions throughout the night. Only when he was leaving and she suggested that she was available to come to his place for drinks did he pull her into a private alcove of the hotel and tell her in no uncertain terms that it was over. When she’d pouted, he’d had to tell her that he was involved with another woman. She hadn’t believed him and had thrown her arms around his neck and tried to kiss him. Only then, when he hadn’t responded, had she realized that he was serious.
“I just hope whoever she is she knows what she’s got in you,” she’d said icily. “No woman with any heart wants a man married to his work.”
He hadn’t responded but had silently thought that Nicole didn’t even know he loved her; would probably reject him when he proposed. At that thought he smiled for the first time in twenty-four hours. The memory of making love to her had lingered in his mind, but that wasn’t all of it. Their lovemaking was wild, raw and passionate, but sex wasn’t the driving force. No, he loved Nicole the concerned physician, Nicole the tenderhearted mother, Nicole the brassy woman who stood up to him and joked with him as well as Nicole the sexy lady he wanted to forever warm his bed.
So he was stuck in Denver. Great. He might as well make the most of it. He decided to go into the office, do as much work as he could while he was here and then as soon as the weather broke, he would fly back to the pine-forested slopes of Montana where he belonged.
He showered, changed into a business suit that felt strangely uncomfortable, then he walked the few blocks through the snow-crusted streets to the office. He spent the next hour with Eloise who brought him up to date on his projects. “You know,” she said, checking off another item on her list as she sat on one side of his desk and he on the other. “This is working better than I thought.”
“What is?”
“You being at the ranch in Montana. I have to admit that I thought it was a crazy scheme when you came up with it.”
“The art of telecommunications.”
“I suppose.”
“Or maybe you just like being in charge when I’m gone.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s it.” A twinkle lit her eyes. “Okay, is there anything else?”
“Yes, get me a florist on the line, would you?”
“You want me to send flowers for you?”
Thorne leaned back in his chair. “No, this time I’ll handle it personally.”
“Uh-oh. Someone special?”
“Very.” He leaned back in his chair and noticed the shocked expression on his secretary’s face. “Very special to me.”
“Will do.” She left his office, buzzed him a few minutes later and told him the florist was on line two. Thorne pulled at his collar and told the man on the other end of the line what he wanted and when he was finished, he grinned widely. That should knock the lady doc’s socks off.
The intercom buzzed insistently and when he picked up, Eloise told him that a man named Kurt Striker was on hold.
“Put him through.” There was a click. “Striker?”
“Yep. Li
sten, you told me to let you know if I found out anything about your sister’s accident.”
All the muscles in the back of Thorne’s neck contracted. “I remember.”
“Well, I’ve done some pokin’ around.”
“And?”
“I think that your sister’s accident involved another vehicle—a maroon Ford product, from the looks of it. Either that rig edged her off the road on purpose or clipped her fender, sent her reeling and the driver got so scared he didn’t bother to stop. The least it could be is a hit-and-run accident, the worst-case scenario is attempted murder.”
Thorne’s heart turned to stone. A tic developed over his eye.
“You’re sure about this?”
“Yep,” Striker said, his voice as strong as steel. “I’d be willing to bet my life on it.”
Chapter 13
“I guess when your name is McCafferty, there’s no way you can keep it away from the press.” Maureen Oliverio slapped a copy of the newspaper down on the table and slid into a chair in the cafeteria where Nicole was finishing her lunch.
“Don’t tell me, some reporter is writing about Randi again.”
“Not just Randi, but the whole damned family.” Maureen opened a packet of nondairy creamer and poured the white powder into her cup of coffee. “Page three.”
Nicole pushed her cup of soup aside and spread the paper open. As she did, her heart nearly stopped. Yes, there was an article about the McCaffertys and Randi’s accident, but the text was more in-depth and gave an overview of John Randall McCafferty, who had once been so influential in the area surrounding Grand Hope. There was also a sketchy story of what his children were doing. There were old snapshots of the McCafferty brothers playing football, a picture of Slade after his skiing accident, a shot of Matt riding rodeo and another picture, one taken just the day before, if the date was to be believed, of Thorne at a charitable fund-raiser in Denver. On his arm was a striking woman who positively glowed in her designer gown and diamonds.
Nicole’s world spun for a second. Her throat closed and she tried to deny what was so obvious. Then, gritting her teeth and finding a scrap of her self-esteem she scanned the article before lifting her eyes and reading the concern in Maureen’s gaze. “I don’t know what possessed me to buy this,” the emergency room team leader said, “but I thought you’d like to see it.”
